


Six Concrete Walls

by Broken_Clover



Category: Guilty Gear
Genre: Between Canon, Gen, Introspection, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 23:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15568626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broken_Clover/pseuds/Broken_Clover
Summary: Zappa contemplates life within his jail cell. (Set between the events of XX and Accent Core)





	Six Concrete Walls

_One..._

_Two..._

_Three..._

_Four..._

_Five..._

_Six..._

He counts the walls. Counts them again. Why does he try? There are always six. No more, no less. A box. A room.

A prison.

He doesn’t know _why_ he’s in prison, of course, but what was the point of questioning now? There was nobody to listen, nobody to answer. It was just him, alone in the darkness and cold and absolute deafening silence.

Even then, he’s still not sure if any of that is true. The men on the other side of the door seem convinced that he’s done something, that he’s done things even when he’s sure he was unconscious. He doesn’t remember any of it, never does. Here he is, locked in a concrete room, and he has no idea why or what he’s done. Whenever he tries to ask what his crimes were, only looks of disappointment and anger are sent back to him, like he’s lost his mind.

Deep down, he wonders if he really has.

There has to be a reason he keeps blacking out. There has to be an explanation on why he keeps waking up hurt. Why people look at him with terror, despite the fact that he couldn’t harm a fly. No matter what he tries, he just can’t seem to figure out anything.

Dammit, this isn’t supposed to be happening. He’s supposed to be in school. University had just barely started- no, he reminds himself, that isn’t right. Classes started months ago. He was only there for a couple of weeks before everything had to take a turn for the worse, and now he can barely keep track of the days from how often he passes out.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. There are no windows, only the door of iron bars. Sometimes he looks out in between them, but only more concrete looks back at him. It’s quiet, aside from a few wisps of wind and distant thuds. The desire to fill the space with noise sometimes overtakes him, but he can barely start humming or speaking when the atmosphere disturbs him back into silence.

Sometimes he can see the people who bring food. They’re dour, but not cruel, the picture of professionalism in their police uniforms. When he sees them, they glance away, rarely offering a little nod just to indicate that they acknowledge his existence. They aren’t unkind, they bring a fair amount of food and make sure that he eats it all. They don’t talk to him, but they bring soap and water every so often and offer rags so he can scrub himself down. They brought books and chalk so he could occupy himself- at least, until the time he woke up and there was a book-shaped dent in the door, and they decided not to bring anymore.

The men aren’t being unkind. They’re terrified of him.

Every time the thought hits him, he can’t help but flinch. It’s rather ironic, he decides, that people view him as something worth being afraid of. He himself had been the picture of cowardice as a child- in many ways, he still was. Almost every frightening thing sent him running back into the safety of his mother’s arms, or some other place to hide. He balked at the thought of tagging along with the neighbor kids to go see if the noises down in the ravine really were Gears, or if they were just runaway sheep from the merino farm. Even the idea of moving away for college had been met with panic and a few shed tears. His mother always referred to him as ‘emotional,’ but in most cases, that emotion was fear. ‘Crybaby’ seemed more apt, but she was too kind to call him that.

Mother always said that expressing emotions was healthy, but he tended to get the impression that he took it too far sometimes. The other children in class didn’t cry or panic as much as he did. Even now, it felt impressive to him that people could see a spider or a large dog and not even eye it with concern. He had felt like the world was full of so many scary things, he never imagined that he himself could be one of them.

Of course, that just means that he can add himself to the list of things he fears. He doesn’t like the idea of having to be afraid of himself, but considering the states that he tends to wake up in, it feels justified. Scrapes, cuts, bruises, sprained ankles, broken arms, all appear without warning, lighting up his skin with hues of bright red and violet. It’s obvious that something happens when he passes out, but nobody has been able to tell him what. Somehow, not knowing is more frightening than the wounds.

There’s at least a bit of solace within the confines of his cell. After all, the only person who can be hurt in there is himself. If he really is as dangerous as the men say, then he’s best off in a place where nobody can get hurt.

That doesn’t mean he’s not still afraid. Even when locked up, the blackouts haven’t gone away. He still wakes up in pain. Sometimes, it just gets stranger. He wakes up in a puddle of last night’s dinner, although it’s more like someone cut right through him and spilled the contents out onto the stone, rather than just throwing it up. Lines of insect-like stings trailing down his skin, despite there being no infestations. The graffiti...

The graffiti is always the most disturbing part. There are times when he wakes up, face to face with a wall littered with writing. He has nothing to write with. Some of it is in red.

_‘I can hear them’_

_‘I’m hungry’_

_‘I will make him suffer’_

_‘You can’t keep me in here forever’_

The wardens offer no explanation, only stating that he was trying to play them for fools. He didn’t understand what they meant at all.

_‘It’s so dark’_

_‘I cannot be restrained’_

_‘Only a matter of time’_

_‘Help me’_

Mixed into the ominous scribbles and eerie threats, desperate pleas repeat. Though he remembers none of it, maybe some of him is still there during whatever happens.

_‘Please save me’_

_‘They’re tearing me apart’_

_‘I’m losing myself’_

_‘Help me’_

_'It hurts'_

Sometimes there are symbols. Innumerable eyes, all pointed at him. Some kind of razor-like blade, dripping with a liquid of some sort. A mangled, haphazard rendition of the British flag. Incomprehensible arcane symbols that look like they could start glowing without any warning. Characters in an odd language- Japanese? It couldn’t be Japanese. How would he be able to write in a language he didn’t know?

It feels like he’s unraveling. There isn’t anything to keep him distracted from the whole mess. He’s stuck with his thoughts all day. Even when he tries to think of other things, he inevitably loops back around to his current predicament, and he’s overwhelmed with the desire to bang his head against the wall. Not that he follows through on it- everything hurts enough as it is without him just making things worse by hurting himself.

He wants to be let out. He wants to go home. Sometimes he finds himself uncharacteristically angry, lashing out at the men when they come to deliver food. He always regrets it. It isn’t like him to be angry at people. Perhaps confinement is driving him mad. Or perhaps whatever it is that’s going wrong with him is worsening. 

Which would be worse? He honestly can’t tell for sure.

Sleeping helped sometimes, but far too little for his liking. He didn’t like the idea of not being awake when he was able to control it, but he also knew that depriving himself of sleep wouldn’t help him stay calm at all. Sometimes, sleeping was all that he could do in order to ignore everything.

After a fitful rest rife with nightmares, he awoke to find himself facedown on the floor. For a good minute, he couldn’t remember what had happened and where he was. When he did, though, he become acutely aware of the filthiness of the floor he was sprawled out on, as well as how warm it had gotten since he nodded off. The concrete wasn’t good at keeping in cool air, and any heatwave outside was enough to make the inside of his cell almost unbearable.

“Ugh...it’s so hot.” He moaned in dismay, picking at the skintight fabric of his clothing as it clung to him uncomfortably. “Humid...and dirty…”

No, no. He wasn’t going to get upset. That wouldn’t solve anything. He just needed to relax. Needed to focus. Focus on the room around him.

A single bench, for sleeping and sitting, a toilet, and a table bolted to the floor. Six concrete walls. Just like always.

_One..._

_Two..._

_Three..._

_Four..._

_Five..._

_Six..._

_...Seven?_

In the corner, a strange green door appeared, and swung open. Out of it stepped an impossibly tall man, wearing a paper bag on his head.


End file.
